Caring is Not an Advantage
by futurescreenwriter11
Summary: How Sherlock spends his three years away from John, and the reunion with members of his old life.


_Caring is Not an Advantage_

Mycroft's words floated through Sherlock's mind as he stood under the tree, watching them. Two people, only two people had come. Though, honestly, how many had he expected? Lestrade thought he was a liar, Molly was…otherwise occupied, and the idea of Donovan or Anderson coming to his internment was laughable, even without the extenuating circumstances of his 'death'.

But the two people who came, they were the most important.

Mrs. Hudson turned and left John alone. He waited till she was gone and began speaking. Sherlock strained his ears but the quiet cemetery swallowed the words. John touched the tombstone, turned away, but then quickly returned and finally Sherlock heard,

"Don't be dead. Would you do that for me? Just stop it. Stop this." The army doctor nodded, made a sharp turn and quickly walked back to the car, the echo of his limp barely visible in his gait.

_ Look at them. They all care so much._ His own words came back, but this time there was a sense of longing that accompanied them.

_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock_. Mycroft's voice rang through his mind.

Caring is not an advantage. Caring is not an advantage. Caring is not an advantage. As he left the graveyard, Sherlock repeated the words to himself till they no longer made sense, hoping that if repeated enough they would be true.

- Four Months Later –

The sound of a door opening echoed through the wide corridors of his mind palace, but Sherlock never looked up from his microscope. Three weeks of experimentation had come down to this moment; as he stared at the small drop of microbes beginning to move.

_Sherlock_.

His name wafted past him, but he brushed it away, more interested in the reaction in front of him than social graces.

Sherlock.

"Not now, not now." He murmured, intently watching the cells splitting. Just a few seconds more and then-

"SHERLOCK!" Molly's shout collapsed the mind palace.

"What?" He said in an exasperated tone, finally looking up. Molly held out a plastic bag that was full of some sort of grey matter.

"Is this brain?" she demanded.

Sherlock looked down at the bag and then turned back to his microscope. "Possibly."

"Human brain?" Molly pressed. Sherlock grimaced, the reaction had finished and he'd missed it.

"Oh, bloody brilliant." He grumbled, standing up and moving to the living room.

"You didn't answer my question. Is this human brain? And why is it in my fridge?" she followed him into the room as Sherlock perched on top of the loveseat.

"It's an experiment, put it back. It's very delicate." He picked up a book from the arm of the chair and began flipping through the pages.

"Feet." Molly reminded him, and Sherlock glanced up for a moment, about to make a sarcastic remark about a mother but John's voice danced through his mind.

_Is that really necessary?_ He could just picture the look of disapproval and hidden amusement that would be on his face. He smirked a little at the thought and jumped down to the seat of the chair, crouching on it.

Molly stiffened a little when she entered the room again, having put the bag back into the fridge. She bit her lip and walked to the window.

"You're biting your lip, you obviously have something unpleasant to say, Molly. So I suggest you just say it." Sherlock said quickly, not glancing up from the pages. Molly turned around and wrung her hands.

"This isn't working, Sherlock." She managed after a moment. Sherlock looked up and lowered the book. "I know I offered you anything…but…I think we need to find a better long-term solution. You can't hide in my flat, doing odd experiments in my kitchen all day long."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked. Molly sighed and looked away, searching for the right words.

"Because I like my place to be clean…you know…and for things not be…growing in my fridge! I have habits…preferences." She looked back at him and stepped forward, an odd confidence filling her. "Before you say it, I'm not John. I don't do everything like he did. And are you ever going to tell him what really happened?"

Sherlock's face shut down to cold detachment and he returned to the book.

"The longer you wait, the harder it will be!" Molly said, ripping the book from his hands. Sherlock's eyes bored into Molly's for a moment till he abruptly stood up, looking down at her.

"I'll find a flat tomorrow. I'm sorry to cause you inconvenience." He walked away and Molly sighed.

"It's not inconvenient, just…"

"Not what you expected?" he said, turning around at the doorway to the kitchen. Molly looked pitifully at him and nodded. He nodded curtly back and returned to the microscope.

-6 months later-

Sherlock calmly stirred his tea and looked out the window. He sipped and frowned; tea just was not the same without cream.

"John, we need-" he stopped himself, mid-sentence. For goodness' sakes, it had been almost a year since he had lived with John. Shouldn't he be used to being alone again? But often he would forget, a few weeks ago he caught himself carrying on a full conversation before he realized that John was not there. He would never be there again.

Sherlock quickly put down the tea and moved to the front door, taking the paper from the hand of the no-longer-bewildered carrier. She had long become used to Sherlock's practice of picking up the paper the moment it was delivered.

Sherlock perched on the back of his chair and scanned down the front page. Another uprising in Egypt, a political scandal in America, doubts about the global economy ever recovering, elections were coming up.

"Is there nothing interesting happening?" he asked the air in frustration. But at the bottom of the page was the headline, _Fifth Victim Found, Scotland Yard Still Baffled_. "Lestrade!" Sherlock said with annoyance. "Didn't you pay any attention to the doorman? Course not because you put-" he scanned the article "Oh, your 'best man' on the job. Anderson couldn't find his own shadow." He grinned as he thought of Anderson struggling to reach the most basic of conclusions that would have taken Sherlock a matter of minutes.

_Five people dead…you might want to stop smiling._ John's disembodied voice reminded him. Sherlock lowered the corners of his mouth and finished the article. _Five people dead._

"What do you want me to do about it?"

_Help Lestrade._

"He doesn't want my help." Sherlock threw down the paper and stalked into the kitchen that looked more like a laboratory. Experiments covered every counter and corner.

_Come on, Sherlock. Help._

"No. I have enough to do anyway." He knew that it was a lie as he picked up the petri dish. He had been amusing himself by helping Molly out at the morgue. But since two weeks ago, when John had randomly showed up and Sherlock had been forced to hide in a cabinet for a few hours, he hadn't returned.

_Help him._

"Fine, I'll send in a tip. Satisfied?" he looked to the doorway, almost expecting to see John with that slightly smug look on his face when he knew he had won. But no one was there.

"This is starting to be embarrassing. Five victims and no more leads." Lestrade said, throwing the case file on his desk and slamming himself into his chair. Donovan and Anderson glanced at each other.

"It has to be the janitor. He has a prior history of aggravated assault-" the door to the office opened and an officer stepped in.

"Excuse me, sir. We received a tip on the case."

"What is it?" Lestrade said, sitting back in his chair and folding his hands.

"The doorman. He said to investigate the doorman." The officer said.

"There's no reason to investigate the doorman. That's ridiculous." Anderson reasoned.

"Sounds like something the Freak would have suggested." Donovan said under her breath, snickering. That was all Lestrade needed to hear.

"Look into this doorman." He said. Donovan and Anderson just stared.

"Sir?"

"You heard me. It's better than just sitting around and doing nothing. Go!" he ordered. Anderson and Donovan left the room, their annoyance barely concealed. "Wait, Bentley." Bentley turned around. "What was the name of the tipster?"

"Anonymous, sir."

"No name? Nothing?"

"No, sir. Just said he wanted to help."

Lestrade knocked on the door of 221B Baker Street and stepped back. Mrs. Hudson quickly opened the door and smiled,

"Inspector! Oh, it's good to see you. Come in, come in." He stepped into the small foyer and took off his hat.

"I'm here to see John. Is he in?" Mrs. Hudson's smile dimmed a little.

"He is. In the flat."

"Thank you." Lestrade made he way up the stairs and entered the familiar living room. The furniture was still the same, however the usual clutter of papers and books and experiments was missing. The place was the cleanest he'd ever seen it. John limped out of the kitchen, cane in his hand.

"Greg! What a surprise!" John said, clapping Lestrade's hand. "I didn't expect to see you today."

"Yeah, I was just in the neighborhood and I thought I'd stop by."

John's eyebrows furrowed for a moment, like he didn't actually believe him but he nodded sharply and motioned to the chairs. "Please, sit." He hobbled over to his usual chair. Lestrade looked at the partner chair, the one where Sherlock was supposed to be sitting, and didn't feel right sitting in it.

"I'll stand actually. I can't stay for long. Actually, I needed to ask you a question." He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced around the flat. "You know we caught that serial killer."

"Yes, congratulations, by the way."

"Well, we found out about the doorman because of an anonymous tip. And, well, I wondered if it was you…?"

"Me? Oh, no. I don't pay too much attention to the news these days and can't get out much to see crimes happening." John said, gesturing to his leg.

"Ah, well. It was a thought. The tip just came from nowhere, but was so right. It was almost like something Sherlock would have said. And I figured if it was anyone, it might be you."

_Sherlock. _The word hung in the air. John's face grew somber and he looked away.

"No. It wasn't me."

Lestrade nodded again, feeling the urgent need to leave and fast. "Well, it was worth a shot. I'll see you again, John."

Two months later, Lestrade rubbed a hand over his face as he looked through another baffling case. He looked over the details and photos of the crime scene, trying to force himself to think it all through but the truth was evident. He was no Sherlock. Since the last anonymous tip, there had been no more helps, no more Sherlock-like guides that had appeared and Greg found himself becoming more and more frustrated with his team...and himself. His phone beeped with a text and he picked it up, welcoming the distraction.

The brother.

Lestrade blinked at the screen and quickly sent a reply.

How do you know? –GL

I know.

Was the only response. Lestrade looked at the number but it was not familiar. He plugged it into a tracking software but it was just a go-phone, paid for with cash.

How can I trust you? –GL

The response came a few minutes later.

It's your choice to believe me or not.

Lestrade frowned and glanced around the office.

Meet me at Holland Park. 12:30. You can remain anonymous. – GL

Almost instantly the reply came,

Done.

Lestrade took one last drink of his lemonade and threw it in the trashcan by the bench before sitting down. He looked around the park; many people were out walking about. But no one seemed there to meet him. Glancing at his watch again, 12:31. What had he been expecting, he thought to himself. _He's dead. Been dead for over a year now…_

"We'll make one turn about the park and you can ask any question pertaining to your cases." A figure said, walking past the bench. Lestrade looked up at the tall man in the long black coat with the fedora pushed low over his face.

"…Sherlock…?" Lestrade asked, incredulous.

"Try to keep up, Inspector. I don't have all day." The figure said, starting down the path along the side of the park. Lestrade quickly got up and ran after him, almost having to run to match his long strides, all the while trying to get a good look at his face.

"So you're wearing fedoras now? What happened to the deer stalker?"

"That's not part of any of your cases." He replied, looking away from Lestrade.

"Fine."

"Did you look in the air vents of the flat?" The man asked, rounding the first corner. Lestrade wished he had picked a larger park, because he had only gotten halfway through his questions when the man abruptly said,

"That's all your time, Inspector. Good day." And he started crossing the street.

"Wait! I'm not finished! Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted into the traffic, but a large truck passed swallowing his shouts. When it had passed, he had disappeared. Lestrade stood there for a moment, almost half-wondering if he had encountered a ghost. But the tips were real. So he merely shook his head and left the park.

The floating notes of Mozart's _Lacrimosa _on a single violin sounded through the flat as Molly opened the door. Hearing her angry footsteps, Sherlock mused that giving Molly her own key was not one of his better ideas. Molly entered the living room and tapped her foot, but Sherlock did not turn around till he had finished the song.

"Ah, Molly. I didn't hear you come in.," he said, setting down the violin and moving towards the kitchen. "Care for tea?"

"What are you thinking?" Molly demanded in a rare moment of angry confidence, following him into the kitchen. "Lestrade! You told Lestrade!"

"I do not know what you mean." He said, calmly turning on his electric teapot and pulling out two cups.

"I know you conversed with Lestrade, in person. He came to the morgue, insisting that he'd seen you and that you'd helped him on not just one, but several of his cases." Molly continued, as Sherlock methodically poured in the tealeaves.

"And you convinced him that it wasn't me."

"I tried, but I don't think he believes me. I think he thinks I'm hiding something from him, which I am, but he wasn't supposed to find out."

"That's generally what people intend when they hide something." Sherlock observed, rummaging through experiments in his fridge for the cream.

"You know what I meant." She said, biting her lip again, and leaning against a counter. "So you're not at all worried about this? Telling Lestrade?"

Sherlock poured himself a cup of tea and took a sip before answering. "No. He never managed a true look at my face, so he can't actually have claimed to see me."

"Just someone wearing a long dark coat, fedora, and having the same intellect as you."

"Precisely." He handed a cup of tea to Molly who took a grateful sip and grimaced.

"I see you've been experimenting with the tea again." She set the cup down. Sherlock took another sip, frowned, and started writing notes on a pad of paper on the counter. "All I know is John is going to be furious when he finds out." Sherlock eyes looked up from his notebook.

"John is not going to find out." He said, simply but resolutely. Molly's mouth opened a little bit, and she blinked a few times. "Do close your mouth, Molly. Looking like a caught-fish does not suit anyone, least of all you."

"You're not going to tell him?" she asked, mouth still open. Sherlock returned to his notes.

"No."

"Why?"

"What?"

"Why are you not telling him? Of all of us, John is the most deserving to know."

"You wouldn't understand." He jotted a few more things down in his notes.

"Stop that!"

"Stop what?" Sherlock looked up.

"Treating me like I wouldn't understand! I know I'm not as smart as you, that I could never be as smart as you. But I'm not stupid. I know what it's like to love someone, and to want to protect them from every danger that they seem hell-bent on exposing themselves to." Molly took a deep breath, and Sherlock just stared at her. "I don't know exactly what goes on between you and John…but I do know that John would never accept any reason to not know that you're alive." She shook her head, and looked around. "He needs to know, and you need to tell him." Feeling that she had said her piece, she quickly picked up her purse and left the flat, leaving Sherlock to sit in silence.

- 1-year later-

Sherlock walked down the streets of London, his long coat flowing out behind him and the collar turned up against the wind. He had been out on a walk all morning long and had a follower. A dark car had always remained a several meters behind him. Any other person may not have noticed, but Sherlock was…Sherlock.

He walked down the street, pausing at the corner, seeming like he was considering whether or not to cross the street. Then he turned sharply back and almost ran towards the car, passing by it and going down an alley. He made several switchbacks and almost laughed to himself, when he arrived on another street with not a dark car in sight. He continued down the street, but then it reappeared again.

This time, however, it pulled up beside him and a woman stepped out. She barely looked up from her cell phone as she opened the door to the back seat for Sherlock. He paused by the car and considered for a moment running again.

"Please get in, Mr. Holmes." The woman said, looking up from her phone.

"What if I don't come?" he said, rolling back on his heels. She smirked a little.

"Get in the car." She repeated, before entering the vehicle herself. Sherlock paused again, but then rolled his eyes and entered the car.

The car pulled up at a very non-descript office building. Sherlock opened the door and strode inside, feeling very put out. The building was still under construction, and the entire bottom floor was one large empty room. Well, almost empty, except for a lone man standing with a closed umbrella in his hand.

"You know I don't like being 'summoned' like one of your lackey interns." Sherlock said, walking through the empty room.

"I know, but it was the best way to summon you, since a séance is no longer necessary." Mycroft responded with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Sherlock stopped a bit of a way away from Mycroft and did not meet his gaze, instead looking over Mycroft's shoulder at the far-off wall. Mycroft kicked up the umbrella and examined the end.

"Is there a point to this meeting, Mycroft? Or is this some attempt at a family gathering?" Sherlock glanced at Mycroft. "If it is, I have many more important things to be doing."

"Like finding an acceptable replacement for tea leaves?"

"You've been watching me." Sherlock accused.

"If you wanted to keep your non-death a secret, you shouldn't have told Lestrade." Mycroft said, righting his umbrella and meeting Sherlock's calculating gaze. "I waited a year to see if you would reach out and contact. But that, obviously, did not happen."

Sherlock's mouth twitched up in a grin. "I have been busy."

"You know, for a day, I almost believed the papers. That you were dead."

Sherlock glanced over at his brother and the grin disappeared.

"John once said that you would out-live God, trying to have the last word." Mycroft chuckled. "He knows you even better than I."

Sherlock remained silent and looked away from Mycroft.

"Miss Hooper has already said everything that needs to be said on that topic, so I'm just going to add that you will be the one to tell Mum."

"Certainly." Sherlock said, grimacing as he imagined his mother's response. He shook his head and looked up at Mycroft who was examining him with an odd look on his face. When Mycroft stepped closer, Sherlock warned, "Please refrain from hugging me."

"How did you do it?" he asked, a rare moment of concern for his little brother on his face. Sherlock grinned again.

"It's just a trick." He said. Mycroft nodded and stepped away.

"I see." Mycroft looked once again at his brother and then started walking away. Sherlock let him walk away, but quickly turned around and called out,

"Wait. You haven't told John, have you?"

Mycroft stopped and turned back. "No."

"Have you been watching him too?" Sherlock walked towards his brother.

Mycroft paused and answered, "Yes."

"How is he?" Sherlock asked, stopping a ways from his brother. It was a few minutes before Mycroft spoke.

"If John was dead, how would you be?" Mycroft responded, before turning around and leaving Sherlock alone.

- 1 year later -

John dropped the newspaper on the table next to his chair and surveyed the flat in boredom. It looked the same as it always did, Sherlock's mess neatly tucked away. It had been over three years since the …accident. The pain was not nearly as sharp as it was during those first dark months. Someone, John could never remember who, had told him that you never really get over the death of someone close, you just learn how to live with it, like a missing limb. John had learned to live with the death of Sherlock, slowly. Some days were better than others. Today was not one of the better days.

John slowly stood up, grabbing his cane and hobbled to the kitchen. His limp had returned mere days after the internment, and try as he might, he couldn't get rid of it this time. The bell rang for the downstairs door and John groaned. Mrs. Hudson had left an hour ago to run errands and wouldn't be back for a while. He considered pretending that no one was home, but on the second bell ring started making his way to the door.

"Just a minute." John called, as he thumped his way down the stairs. Finally reaching the landing, he paused and took a breath. _This better be worth it._ He thought to himself as he opened the door.

Time stopped when he saw who it was. Sherlock nodded and twitched his mouth into a grin.

"Hello, John." He said in the all to familiar voice.

"No." John said in shock, slamming the door shut. "It can't be." He blinked a few times and wondered if he had been imagining, or if it was his mind playing tricks. He hadn't had a hallucination like that in over a year…and they had never been that strong. He quickly opened the door again. Sherlock was standing there; looking almost identical to the man he had seen on the ledge three years ago. "How?" John asked.

"It's a trick, John." Sherlock said, easing a little. "It was quite simple actually. I talked with Moll-"

SLAM.

John's fist met Sherlock's face, the force of the punch knocking him back onto the cement. Sherlock looked up at his irate once-flat mate, who slammed the door again and strode away from the door. Sherlock stood up, straightened his clothes, and gingerly examined his cheek. John paced about the hall in anger for a minute, and then quickly opened the door again.

Sherlock took a step back when John came out onto the street and stood a few inches from him. Sherlock looked warily down at John.

"How simple?" John asked.

"I can explain everything after I find a first-aid kit." Sherlock said. John shifted his gaze to the wound.

"There's one in our flat. Under the sink." John said, turning and going into the building. Sherlock smiled and followed him into 221B,

"I hope you haven't touched any of my experiments."


End file.
